


drink with me

by euphania



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caretaking, Comfort, Drunkenness, M/M, Pre-Relationship, a lot of that, somewhat symbolic usage of russian diminutives, tfw you're in love but can't address it yet?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: In the middle of night—early, early morning, really—Andrei receives a text from a rather drunken Pierre.(Доступно на русском языке)





	drink with me

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like this was... a long time coming. enjoy !!
> 
> cw for vomiting/general repercussions of getting stupid drunk
> 
> Русская версия: https://ficbook.net/readfic/5702677
> 
> many many (surprised) thanks to TravelerFromTamriel for translating!!

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:06

_heyy andrei_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:06

_so imb.not durnk_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:07

_ive just drunkk alot_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:07

_ans now im sick,. but i diont want to wake caticche_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:07

_i donnt knoe what to do_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:09

_soryr for texting yuo_

 

Andrei considers his options carefully. It’s a Saturday morning—an early, early morning—so no sleep would be lost that couldn’t be regained before the next school day.

Masha would certainly worry, though, if she woke up and he was nowhere to be found. Plus, since Pierre was only drunk—and he _was_ drunk—because of Anatole and Fedya, people Andrei had warned him to stay away from, _please,_ it was really his own fault, and not at all Andrei’s responsibility.

Andrei furrows his brow. It’s _Pierre._

 

Andrei Bolkonsky at 00:11

_Unlock the front door and lie down. I’ll be there soon_

 

Pierre Bezukhov at 00:14

_yourre so NICe andryusha_

 

Maybe he should be worried about walking through Moscow past midnight, alone, at age sixteen, but it sends more of a tired exhilaration through Andrei than anything else. Everything is different so, so early in the morning, and the bleariness only makes the world more fantastical. The stoplights are blinding, and the quiet, orange-lit streets last miles.

When Andrei told Pierre to lie down, he didn’t mean in the bathroom. He probably should have expected it, all things considered.

“Are you with me, Pierre?” he asks gently, closing the door behind him. The harsh bathroom light feels wrong; the rest of the house is pitch black, save the lights of boxes and wires for the TV downstairs.

Pierre groans.

“I don’t feel good.”

“Yeah,” Andrei says, “I can tell.” Pierre’s curled up on the tiled ground, his head hitting the edge of the bathtub and his hands across his stomach. It’s a sorry sight, and Andrei’s heart softens a bit in both pity and affection. He remembers the articles about alcohol poisoning he read while waiting at crosswalks. _Keep them hydrated._

“I’ll be right back.”

 

He knows the cramped kitchen so well now that he’s not sure he even needs the lights on. Cups are over the sink, and the medicine is on the far left, in the corner cabinet. The tap water always comes on cold.

 

When Andrei comes back, it’s with an obscenely tall glass of water and a vividly pink bottle of Pepto Bismol. He’s taken off his overcoat, almost feeling self conscious about the choice—he’s wearing pajamas, polka-dot sweatpants and a Spartak Moscow shirt.

“You aren’t dressed,” Pierre notices, slurring. He’s managed to prop himself against the bathroom wall, his shoulders slumped. His hair is everywhere, matted against his forehead, his skin is splotchy, and at the sight of Andrei he puts on a lopsided smile. “You’re never not dressed.”

“This was an important matter,” Andrei says, half-jokingly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I told you that.”

Andrei just slides down to sit next to Pierre and puts the glass of water into his hands.

“Drink.”

Slowly, Pierre does, tiny sips escalating into huge gulps Andrei has to stop. Pierre breathes out heavily, stretching his legs out in the space between the toilet and the sink and cabinets.

Assess the situation, Andrei.

“Tell me what happened.”

“The Kuragins,” Pierre slurs, grinning as if it’s some big joke. Andrei would find it humorous if his nerves weren’t a bit on edge after reading too much about alcohol poisoning.

“How did you get home?”

“Can’t remember. Hélène, maybe. She’s so _nice_.”

Pierre doesn’t elaborate further and takes another sip of water. He shifts closer to Andrei, and Andrei can feel the sick heat hovering around Pierre’s skin.

“We’re so _stupid_ , Andrei. We poured it into _pint glasses."_  He starts to giggle, knocking his head back against the wall and leaning in over Andrei’s shoulder. Andrei notices how close their heads are, so close that their hair could tangle together. So close that Pierre is hardly in focus.

“You should know better,” Andrei responds sternly. Pierre’s face falls and stills.

“Yeah.”

“What did you do when you got here?”

“Took some aspirin. Maybe a lot. I had a headache.”

“You’re going to kill your liver.”

“Good! Good.”

Suddenly, Pierre’s face blanches and he moves towards the edge of the toilet, shaking. Andrei’s nerves jump as Pierre starts to retch. He knocks over the Pepto Bismol—the cap is still on, thank God—as he moves onto his knees to squeeze closer to Pierre. Carefully, he places a hand on Pierre’s shoulder; he doesn’t know how close is too close, too much, too unreadable.

“It’s the body’s natural reaction,” Andrei says, scrunching his nose at the fact. “Ridding itself of all the toxins and acidity. Making… making everything all right.”

Pierre coughs as he leans back from the rim, sitting back on his knees. He groans.

“You’re so goddamn _smart_ , Andrei,” he says bitterly, then, with less spite, “I don’t know how you do it.”

His glasses are crooked on his nose. With a gentle look, Andrei adjusts them, careful not to smudge the lenses.

“You’re smart, too.”

“Sure,” Pierre concedes, “but I can’t do it without also being a fucking mess.”

Andrei squeezes Pierre’s hand and flushes away the sick. He has nothing contradictory to say, so he doesn’t speak.

“I’m supposed to keep you awake until you start doing better.”

“Do whatever,” Pierre says, pulling away and backing up against the bathroom wall, hugging his knees. Andrei makes a note to add _hyper-sensitive_ to the list of attributes Pierre gets when drunk. Sighing, he moves back to where Pierre is, lining himself against Pierre’s side.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“A different kind of sick and bad,” Pierre responds. “All empty.”

Andrei reaches for the water glass, still half-full, and takes the Pepto Bismol in his other hand, pours some of the pink liquid into the cap. Pierre stares at the glass, then the Pepto Bismol, then him, before taking them both and finishing them with an air of petulance. Andrei holds his gaze.

“You know that I don’t know anything more than you,” he says after a moment.

“Not true!” Pierre blurts. He pauses, gathers his thoughts. “You know how to take care of me.”

Andrei smiles, thin-lipped, and looks away. His chest seems to swell, as if something is ballooning inside. It feels… he’s not sure.

“Oh, Petya,” he finally says, speaking to the floor. “I looked up _how to care for drunk people_ on the way here.”

Pierre processes slowly. Several seconds pass, then he smiles wide and puts his head on Andrei’s shoulder.

“Andryusha.” A soft pause. “I’m not drunk.”

He shifts into the crook of Andrei’s neck. Andrei tenses, blushes, and lets him. Pierre’s breathing, steady and warm, washes across his skin. It’s all so much.

“You need to stay awake.” Andrei says it without much conviction.

“Staying awake is for _losers_ ,” Pierre replies. “Sleep is all that is good, Andrei. And you’re so _warm._ ”

“I need you to stay awake for just a little while longer,” Andrei repeats, as if a straight face will stop the red blush from permanently staining his cheeks.

“I’ll think about it.”

Andrei purses his lips. Sitting down, now, quiet and at rest, the sleep he’s missed is catching up to him.

“Have I ever told you about the time Marya Dmitrievna looked after Masha and me for a weekend?”

Pierre stirs.

“What?”

“Let me tell you.”

 

The story involves being kicked out of two restaurants, getting horribly sick off of Marya Dmitrievna’s cooking, and assembling all of her new living room furniture. Andrei skims over the sad parts—his mother’s relapse, how no one else could take care of them on such short notice—and lets himself get carried away with the comedy.

 

“Marya Dmitrievna… should not be allowed around children,” Pierre decides as Andrei finishes.

“I know.”

“I wanna sleep now.” Pierre says it like a child would, sleepy and certain.

It’s just past two in the morning, and Andrei’s tempted to agree. Maybe sleeping on the floor of an overly-lit bathroom isn’t the best idea, but he’s so tired he can hardly mind, and the next easy option—sleeping in Pierre’s bed, together—is too radical to even consider. More so, Andrei justifies to himself, it’s better for Pierre to stay sitting up than lying down, lest he vomits again.

Maybe he also doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t let himself think of that.

“Okay,” Andrei finally says. The bathroom tile seems to give in, become soft, and everything is warm, Pierre’s breathing tickling his neck. “Okay.”

 

Everything has hardened when he wakes up again at a bleary six in the morning, his neck aching and his feet cold against the ground. Pierre is still asleep, still slotted into his shoulder. When Andrei wakes him up, makes him down another glass of water and puts him into his bed, he tries to not dwell on the fact that he would have _never_ left his house in the middle of the night and walked twenty-five minutes in the Moscow dark to take care of anyone, _anyone_ else.

“Thank you,” Pierre mumbles, eyes closed as he turns under the sheets. Andrei nods, even though he knows Pierre can’t see.

“I’m going home now,” he says. “Text me.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll see you on Monday, Pierre.” Andrei turns to leave, deeming Pierre’s safety ensured.

“Bye, Andryusha.” Pierre’s voice comes muffled by sheets, still slightly slurred. “I love you.”

Andrei stops, takes a breath in.

“You’re drunk.”

He’s just drunk.

His stomach bubbling, Andrei winces as he walks out the door.


End file.
